


Corps-à-corps

by Dweo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fencing, M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dweo/pseuds/Dweo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A simple summer job was what Greg needed to move on after he lost the only home he ever knew, but his life was never going to be that easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corps-à-corps

**June 15 1987**

Greg knew it was a bad idea the moment he saw the building. He walked up to it and told himself he wasn’t nervous. It was just another job, just a way to get through the summer, but the building was the poshest thing he had seen in a long time and the figure walking up to him looked like he wasn’t going to let him in without a fight. Greg took a proper look at the man and fought hard to suppress his laughter. The man wore an actually uniform, with shinny buttons, gold braiding on his arm and a hat, a very big hat. The man in his turn frowned, looked Greg over from the tip of his old shoes, to his short spiky hair with disdain. Greg squared his shoulders. He wasn’t going to back-down because some stupid porter felt Greg’s attire wasn’t in keeping with the style of the club.

“I’d like to speak with Mr. Jackson.” Greg broke the challenging silence.

“Lord Jackson?

“Yeah, it’s about a job.”

“We’re not hiring maintenance people at this moment.” His voice dripped with disdain and Greg snorted.

“I have an appointment; my name is Greg Lestrade.” The man looked taken aback for a moment, but then picked up a phone, softy talked and nodded.

“Please sit down, sir.” He was all of the sudden polite and guided Greg to a chair.

The whole situation was ridiculous, but that was after all Greg’s whole life story, so this wasn’t a new thing. He pulled of his leather jacket and sat down. His black army boots in stark contrast with the white marble floor only illustrated how out of place he was.

“Ah Greg.” A wiry, tall man, about 30 years old, walked in only a few minutes later. He looked Greg over and smiled at Greg’s defensive stance. “Don’t worry, he warned me about you.” He extended his hand and his handshake was firm and friendly

“Yeah, I would expect that, sir,” Greg said. 

“Please call me Alex. Peter always talked very highly about you.” Greg flinched at the name. Peter, the man who raised him, who showed him the world, who taught him everything. The man who turned out to have a lot of friends in high places. The man who was dead and buried. And the reason Greg was here. Peter always wanted him to leave the business, find an honest living, and that was what brought greg here to use his only talent.

Fighting.

Greg followed the man out of the reception area into a wide open hall. He saw men come out of the doors on the side. All dressed in protective clothing and many carried masks and weapons of all sorts.

“Your job will be simple.” Alex gestured to the hall “You’ll instruct whoever needs help. You’ll be their sparring partner if necessary. Most of our members are enthusiastic amateurs, but we do have some world-class fencers here and we don’t always have somebody for them to play against who is on their level. Just be careful. You know, egos.”

Greg nodded; he knew his place. He was here to make the rest look good, even if he could beat them with one hand tied behind his back.

“Ah, this will be interesting.” Alex pointed to a kid, no more than ten years old, who walked into the middle of the hall, black curls bounced around his head. He was followed by another boy a few years older. Both dressed for a fight and caried their masks with them.

The kid put his on and before he had properly saluted his opponent placed an attack. He danced swiftly around the hall, called out jeers to his opponent, who calmly put on his own mask and defended himself against every attack, ignoring the verbal ones with ease.

Their fighting style was as different as they could be and the fight was one of the most fascinating Greg had seen in a long time. The kid was good, fast and the attacks on his opponent kept coming. Greg watched him stab the left shoulder.

He turned his gaze at the kid’s feet and knew Peter would’ve been both impressed with the kid’s agility and appalled with the lack of attention to form.

Greg switched his attention to the other man whose form was absolutely perfect and Greg wasn’t only talking about his fighting. He was also clearly accustomed to the attacks because all he did was deftly parry each stab and slash.

The fight was surprisingly equal, despite the height difference between them, but Greg knew if the kid could learn a good form learn not waste his energy in useless moves he would be truly world-class, but for now he was going to lose, Greg was certain. 

“He really should watch his feet,” he said. Alex, who looked at him with a raised eyebrow, laughed.

“I’ve been saying it for years. He’ll never learn.”

At that moment the older of the fighters made his first offensive move and the kid fell down with the blade between his legs.

He stood up made a perfect bow to his opponent, removed his mask, and there was a wide smile of exhilaration on his face.

“That was brilliant you have to show me how to do that, Mycroft.”

“If you just behaved like rules also apply to you. You won’t need this kind of trickery.” Mycroft placed his mask and foil carefully on one of the benches.

“Come.” Alex took Greg by the arm and guided him to the pair.

“Mycroft, Sherlock, may I introduce Greg. He’ll be our new instructor.” Mycroft looked him over a rather unreadable look in his eyes and extended his hand.

“A pleasure to meet you, Greg. I hope you’ll show your talents to us soon.” Greg shook his hand a fraction too long, uncertain if the double entendre had been deliberate and not sure if flirting with one of your clients on the first day of a new job was a good idea.

The kid, Sherlock apparently, stepped between them, giving Mycroft just enough time to pull his hand away.

“Why are we getting a circus clown as an instructor?” Greg frowned

“How?”

“Please forgive my brother; he still needs to learn not everything he observes needs to be said out loud.”

“Yeeeah,” Greg said, “that doesn’t answer how.”

“There are traces of saw dust on your shoes and the bottom of your jeans. Your hands are rough, several rope-burn scars from pulling on large ropes. And you really should learn to wash behind your ears and the edge of your nose.” Greg scratched his hairline and saw small flakes of stage make-up come away.

“That… that’s actually clever,” he said.

“Look Mycroft, I was right.” Greg laughed and Sherlock bounced away with a salute.

“Do you mind if I leave the two of you alone? Perhaps Mycroft would like to see what you can do?”

“I would love to see what he can do,” Mycroft said, with a satisfied and definitely flirty smile. 

An hour later they both collapsed on one of the benches around the hall. Tired, but satisfied.

“You are far more than just a circus clown,” Mycroft said.

“I’m not though,” Greg said. “I was raised to be a clown, a fighter. I can do things with a rapier that cannot be shown in polite company.”

“Like I said, more than a clown.” At these words he stood up and left, picking up Sherlock from a crowed of young boys trying to play pin the tail with a foil.

“I look forwards to seeing you again, Greg,” he said with his hand on Sherlock’s neck. He turned his head around and for the briefest of moments Greg thought he saw a wink.

***  
Greg had to admit the job was ideal. The pay was decent; the tips were brilliant, especially if he let the rich bastards win.

Mycroft came in a few times a week, sometimes alone, often with Sherlock in tow. Greg soon learned that Sherlock only wanted to play and was not interested in fencing as an ancient tradition. Greg knew Peter would have despaired because Sherlock was the best fencer in the club by far.

Mycroft, on the other hand, was merely good, but unlike just about everybody else in the club hated it when Greg let him win and clung to the rules.

“Move your feet a bit.” Greg stepped close behind Mycroft and corrected his foot with his own. He could smell Mycroft’s shampoo and not for the first time these weeks he wondered what Mycroft would do if he would place his hand on his waist and pull him against his body. He quickly stepped back making sure his body’s reaction had not betrayed him.

“Just go on,” he said, “I’ll be back in a moment.”

He walked away hoping people were not paying attention to him, blessing the club was almost empty on the early summer weekday.

He fell down on the bench in the changing room, wondering if he should take a cold shower completely dressed or just give in and spend the rest of the day in shame, not able to look Mycroft in the eyes.

The moment he decided to give in he heard the door open. He groaned, closed his eyes and hoped whoever it was would simply ignore him.

“You know, I can help you with that.” Greg looked up and there he was, the cause of all the problems.

“You really don’t want to,” he said.

“I’ve been flirting with you from the moment we met. What makes you think I don’t want to?”

“You’re a kid.”

“So are you, besides I went to public school.” Greg could not help himself and laughed.

“Just don’t, people can walk in any moment,” he said.

“I locked the door. Besides we’re both young, I doubt it will take us long. People can wait.” He walked up to him and kissed him deeply. And that was the moment Greg knew he was lost.

***

“One day you really must tell me how you ended up as a clown.” Mycroft asked. They both sat outside smoking a cigarette.

“My parents died when I was just a kid. They were free folk. They left me with an old friend and went to a party. They never returned.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft put his hand on Greg’s leg.

“Don’t be. I had a good life and I don’t know what would have become of me if they had lived.” Greg knew he sounded callous, but this was his reality and always had been. His parents should never have had kids.

“Peter, their friend was a fencer, acrobat, clown,” he said with a fond smile. “He thought me everything I know. I only found out years later Peter had actually been an Olympic gold medal winner in his youth.”

“He was my father, my mother and the only stable thing in my world. When he died last year our act fell apart and well, as they say, clowns are the saddest people in the world, so I joined an existing troupe to deal with my loss. They moved to mainland Europe at the beginning of the summer and I decided this was the perfect moment for me to break away, start over again.”

“How long will you stay?” Mycroft’s fingers drew circles on Greg’s left thigh.

“I don’t know, as long as there’s something that keeps me here I’ll stay. But this isn’t my home. I don’t know how to live in one place. I’m displaced, homeless, despite having a roof over my head.”

“I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

“I know. That’s why we’re not going to work.”

***

Greg felt restless. It had built up for weeks and he knew it was time to move on. To find a real purpose, to leave the blades behind for good. The summer was ending and everything would change soon. He walked around the hall, still doing his job.

He watched Sherlock once again beat men three times his age. Only to lose to a less skilled fencer because he was too impulsive, too much interested in the game and not enough in actually winning. He currently sparred with a young man. He danced around him, ignoring all rules and he annoyed his opponent by a quick attack to the legs. Greg wondered why people kept practicing with him, since he didn’t take it seriously. He watched Sherlock giving a quick slap against the man's shoulders. Greg frowned for a moment; there was some commotion to the side and then smiled. Sherlock danced, playing his audience, bowing to them when a blade appeared on his throat. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Mycroft asked and immediately placed his mask on his head. Greg smiled and watched the brothers fight. He wanted to remember this picture, the same one as when he had arrived. He walked out of the hall, straight up to Alex’s office. 

“I’m leaving,” he said. He owed Alex this much. He had offered Greg far more than he should have and all based on the bond between his father and Peter. Alex looked up.

“Ah, still the wanderer? Just know you’re always welcome here.” Greg smiled and saluted him before walking out into the hall again. One last shower and then the road again.

He looked up at the loud cheer coming from the crowd around the fighters when he was on his way out. He watched as Mycroft swiped his brother’s feet in an exact copy of the move he did two months ago. That’s when Sherlock showed Greg’s work had not been entirely in vain and remained standing. With that last picture in his mind he left the hall.

He pulled out his helmet and unlocked his bike.

“You can stay you know.” Greg didn’t turn around

“What for?”

“Me.” Greg did turn around at these words.

“You? You’ll be off, having a great career, being brilliant. You don’t need me hanging around.”

“I can always make room for you in my plans for world domination,” Mycroft said.

“Or you can join me?” Greg smiled. “I’ve a bike and there is room for somebody on the back.” He gestured to the bike standing behind him.

“I can’t,” Mycroft said. “This is my world. I have things to do, university. I’ve to make sure he doesn't do something stupid.”

“Of course, protecting him as always.”

“I’ll miss you,” Mycroft said, walked to Greg giving him a long kiss, and turned back to the club. Greg watched Mycroft walk away, a little swagger in his hips and Greg enjoyed the last little private show. He put on his helmet and with a rough kick the motor roared and he was off into the sunset, alone.

**December 5 2005**

Greg sighed if he had known being promoted to DI would mean this much paper work he would have refused.

“Sir.” Sally, his freshly promoted sergeant, stood in front of him. “They found several bodies something to do with a drug bust. They want every available man on it.” Greg immediately closed the file and pulled on his coat.

“Lead the way,” Sally smiled. She already knew him so well she didn’t have to guess why he was so eager to leave.

In the end the case had turned out to be pretty boring. Gregson had been in charge and had made sure Greg’s team was charged with the most boring part of it all.

The long line of pimps, dealers and customers led into the waiting police vans.

“Look at that guy,” Sally said pointing at a well-dressed man, who was not what you would expect in a crack house.

“Some banker trying to get his hit.” He walked to the man.

“I’m no banker.” The indignantly tone made Greg smile.

“Oh, pray tell us. What are you then, sir?”

The man closed his mouth, there was something familiar about the face, but Greg happily ignored it. There would be enough time on the station to figure out who he was. 

Who he was became clear only an hour later when a posh gentleman pushed his way into the office.

“I understand you have my bro-." And at that he stopped mid sentenced and could only stare. Greg looked up at him and felt his heart trying to escape his chest.

“Mycroft,” he said.

“It's you.” Sally stared between them.

“Sally, do you mind?” She nodded and left the office immediately.

“You look good,” Mycroft said as soon as the door closed.

“You too, still fence?” Greg asked.

“No, I found I no longer had any reason for it.” Greg smiled and closed the few feet between them in two big steps and pulled the other man in a hug.

”I’ve missed you.”

**December 24 2017**

Greg walked into the dark, empty and cold house. How he hated night like this. Alone even though it was already dark outside, nobody to welcome him, to ask how his day was. It was Christmas Eve and he was alone

He collapsed face down on the sofa, not even bothering to take his shoes off. He’ll worry about it tomorrow. He woke up when loud voices invade his pleasant dreams. He immediately recognized them and he groaned. He was not sure if this wasn’t even worse than being alone. Well, he had ways to defend himself.

He carefully and soundless felt under the sofa. He was sure he hid it there and to his amusement he found more than one. He slowly withdrew the foil from its hiding place and turned to his back, the weapon concealed behind the pillows on the sofa. He smirked he had finally found an use for the horribly fashionable and thus uncomfortable things.

He closed his eyes and only moments later the door to the sitting room opened and three pair of footsteps accompanied the arguing voices.

“Ssst.” A third voice joined the other two. “I think he’s asleep.” At this Greg heard one pair of feet move to the back of the sofa looking over the edge. He could feel the breath on his cheek, which gave him the perfect target.

“Don’t move.” He brought up his blade to his opponent's throat. He opened his eyes and looked up into the eyes of his lover, who looked surprised for moment, before stepping back. Greg stood up, and made sure to have his eyes on him all times. He backed Mycroft to the table in a few moments. 

John stood gaping and Sherlock immediately took the spot Greg had just vacated.

“Good, I’ve not had enough entertainment for one night,” he said. Greg looked at him briefly and saw there were indeed some nasty cuts on both Sherlock and John’s faces.

This momentary lapse in concentration cost him dearly because Mycroft had placed the table between them and pulled his umbrella from the chair he had hanged it on.

“You’re going to defend yourself with an umbrella?” Greg asked with a wide smile.

“You didn’t tell him about my Christmas present yet?” Sherlock said loudly. Greg felt his eyes go wide when Mycroft pulled his umbrella apart, revealing a thin blade.

After that all sensibility was lost and for at least fifteen minutes. they jumped across the room. Sherlock in the end won without even joining in. He stuck out his leg, Mycroft tripped and fell backwards Greg saw it too late and stumbled for a moment, before falling on Mycroft.

They lay there laughing for a few moments and then Mycroft pulled Greg’s head down and they kissed.

“Ewww do you have to?” Sherlock sounded disgusted as a child who caught their parents kissing.

With one last peck Greg rolled away and lay on his back. He stared up at the ceiling. It had taken him a long time, but he had finally made it home.


End file.
